


All Things Considered

by MerinaThropp



Category: The Wicked Years Series - Gregory Maguire, Wicked - All Media Types, Wicked - Schwartz/Holzman
Genre: F/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-05-26 00:06:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6215674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MerinaThropp/pseuds/MerinaThropp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elphaba and Fiyero, the Shiz years. Filling in the blanks, from their first meeting to their last; the good, the bad and everything in-between. Fiyeraba, multi-chap.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ozdust

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: THIS STORY IS BEING CO-WRITTEN WITH THE WONDERFUL PAINICPICNIC.
> 
> We've have been having a ton of fun these past few months, working together on a Fiyeraba story that 'fills in the blanks' of their tumultuous relationship at Shiz. We decided to challenge ourselves by writing in third-person present tense. PainicPicnic writes as Fiyero, whilst I write as Elphaba. We originally never intended for this to be shared with the world, but after a chat last week, we agreed it would be no bad thing to bring a little more Fiyeraba into the fandom. So! Just to be absolutely clear: Fiyero's paragraphs are written by PainicPicnic, whilst Elphaba's paragraphs – and additional editing – are written by yours truly. We hope you enjoy...

All things considered, she won't be surprised if this all turns out to be a dream.

Everything – from the pointed hat on her head to the smiles of the students around her, from the dazzling lights of the Ozdust to the small, perfectly manicured fingers of Galinda Upland currently entwined with her own…these things belong in a fantasy world, a daydream, a castle in the sky. And Oz-knows she, of all people, has no time for such silliness.

Wishing gets you nothing – that's what Father always says.

But given this evening's turn of events – mad, unthinkable, impossible events she still can't quite wrap her head around – well. It's certainly something to make one wonder. This is indeed a wish come true. No jeers, no taunts, nobody staring or pointing.

Just her, and Galinda, and a silly, impossible, wonderful dance that she never wants to end.

.

For a girl who loves pink and spends the majority of her morning getting dressed for the afternoon, Galinda Upland isn't half bad. Even if she is, at times, as air-headed as her hair colour suggests.

When she marches to the dance floor, pink lips pressed into a thin line of determination, he hangs back to watch – and suddenly, it isn't only Elphaba Thropp dancing, but Galinda as well, and then Boq, and the rest of the school. And Elphaba glows. Even from this far, he can see it. Sure, Galinda is all sparkles and glitter, but even in her simple frock and hat, Elphaba is radiant.

He tries to tell himself it's just the lighting and the spiked punch.

The minutes pass, and he's joking loudly with several others when he hears Galinda over the music, turning at the sound of her voice. She's running – somehow – through the thick crowds in spindly heels, dragging Elphaba just behind. He can't decipher every word out of Galinda's mouth, but he knows the blonde is excited from her smile and the way her words blend into high-pitched chatter. All he can do is smile pleasantly in response.

.

"Hurry, Elphaba," Galinda trills, her smile still real as real and the light catching on every pearly-white tooth as she tugs her in the direction of the bar. "He's just over here, I'll introduce you – Fiyero! Fiyero, dearest!"

Oh no. Oh no, no, no.

Her heart sinks in her stomach, eyes narrowing to slits as they meet those of the Winkie prince Galinda has been parading around all evening. Some silly, stuck-up rich boy the whole school has lost their heads over in the course of a mere twelve hours. He'd practically run her over just this morning, during his – disgracefully late – arrival in the world's most preposterous, impractical method of transport imaginable.

Oz, of all people, of every Ozdust attendee, why oh why –

"- Miss – I mean, Galinda," she hisses, stumbling over the name, the formality tasting odd in her mouth after everything that had happened. "There's no need, I assure you, we are thoroughly -" The word is pushed out through gritted teeth. "- acquainted."

.

He keeps the charm despite the bitter look Elphaba is giving him, her twisted grimace a stark contrast with Galinda who's all blinding smiles and pink cheeks. So maybe the green girl's a little less radiant up close, but even through the look she's given him, he can't help but stare.

"I remember you."

Of course he does, how could he not? A girl with green skin who didn't fall at his feet with a glimpse of his smile?

"You were in the courtyard this morning. However...I don't think I properly introduced myself to you."

He takes her hand, clearly unwillingly, and presses a chaste kiss to emerald knuckles with a slight bow.

"Fiyero Tiggular, if you haven't already been told."

.

She snaps her hand back as though it's been burned, heart thudding in her chest.

"Oh, believe me." It's all she can do not to spit the words at him; a horrible, sickly, warm sort of feeling is spreading across her cheeks, the heat of the dance floor, it must be, of course, but nevertheless, how dare he – "I doubt there's a soul in the whole of Shiz who hasn't had the…pleasure of knowing exactly who rolled up to the gates this morning."

The sarcasm is palpable, throbbing in the air between them. Good, she thinks. If anyone needs taking down a peg or two, it's him. Him and his stupid thousand-watt smile, and bright blue eyes, and – Oz, just listen to her, what had Avaric spiked the punch with…

.

Well she doesn't slap him; he considers that a victory. And if he isn't mistaken, the muddy colour high in her cheeks is her equivalent of a blush. He would've considered her won over, save for the fact she's practically spitting her words his way.

"My reputation proceeds me then. I daresay, I hope it has done me justice."

She stands up straighter; Fiyero accordingly adjusts his stance. It isn't hard to miss the fire in her eyes, the way the side of her mouth quirks up as she prepares so slice him down. He's ready, too – if anything, a verbal sparring match will prove more entertaining than the whole of the evening.

"I'd avoid the punch," he adds, tipping the rest of his in a nearby plant.

.

"Oh?" she retorts, ready with a snider, crueler response to that curious warning – but her eyes catch Galinda's, peering curiously at her from beneath her prince's arm, and the words die on her tongue. After everything her blonde roommate has done for her…this is a poor show of repayment. No, she won't rise to the bait. She won't let her temper get away with her, won't fly off the handle as Galinda herself always puts it.

"Agreed," she says shortly, and then tears her gaze away from his, fixing it firmly on the little blonde next to him. "Avaric is a devil at the best of times, he'll spike anything if it stands still long enough. Galinda, I'm –"

"Going back to the dorm to finish Doctor Dillamond's Great Drought essay?" Galinda's smile is all-too-knowing, and Elphaba thinks – not for the first time – that her roommate might be a great deal more perceptive than she lets on.

.

"An essay, at this hour?" He doesn't keep the amusement from his voice. "The whole school is here! Why not stay? Dance a little. The party's just for tonight, the paper can wait for tomorrow."

.

He grins at her in a way that does the strangest, silliest things to her insides and makes her want to jinx him all at the same time. Oz, what an insufferable attitude. How Galinda puts up with him is swiftly becoming a mystery to her.

"The paper," she breathes, jabbing a finger at the nearest clock, "is due tomorrow at nine am sharp, Mr. Tiggular – which, I might add, you would have known if you had graced History class with your presence this morning!"

.

There it is, the fire. His arm slips from Galinda's slim shoulders as he leans closer, still grinning as she seethes.

"The problem is," he reaches over, palm on her wrist to lower her arm a few inches, "have you happened to look at the time? It's hardly nine am sharp. In other words, we have plenty of time, if we actually intend to turn the paper in."

.

His hand is a smooth, heavy weight against her skin, fingers overlapping around the bony wrist, and she almost chokes out loud when he takes another step towards her – for Oz's sake, he's worse than Galinda, does he even comprehend the meaning of personal space?

.

"What's so great about a drought anyways?" He leans back slightly, unable to shake the thought that Elphaba smells faintly of vanilla, or how warm she is beneath his fingertips. "Don't they just slap those adjectives on there in hopes of enticing the masses into wasting their time reading over it and writing essays?"

.

Magic seethes within her, coursing through her veins and fizzing between her fingers – she rips her hand away at the same moment, but makes no effort to avoid the power burning him as swiftly and smartly as she can.

"Well, you see, Mr. Tiggular," she monotones, the voice of a teacher with an exceptionally dull pupil, "if you saw fit to attend your lessons on time, or – Oz forbid – attend a lesson at all, you would know that adjectives are frequently used to name or describe the attributions of a noun; in this case, a drought. I know, I know –" Her voice drips with awful sarcasm and Galinda's staring at her with eyes as wide as saucers, but she doesn't care, she doesn't care, she's done with him – "it's quite the complex concept, but I'm sure Doctor Dillamond will be able to give you lots of help understanding –"

.

There's no way to miss her condescending tone, even as the music grows louder within the ballroom, but Oz, he can't pull away. This - she - is intoxicating. He steps closer, their faces mere inches away from each other, the air crackling between them.

"Now, Miss Thropp, that tastes strongly of bitterness -"

"- I need some air!" Suddenly Galinda's hand is on his chest, forcing him back as she plants herself between them. "Some air, yes!"

His gaze lingers on Elphaba's face a moment longer – before he takes the hint. He leans Galinda's way, looping an arm around her shoulders, not daring to put any weight into it in fear of the blonde collapsing beneath him. The gesture is an attempt to distract himself; after all, Galinda is pretty and willing and as eager as any other…if far from the green-skinned girl glaring daggers not a foot away from him. It seems he'll have to entertain himself with Galinda, but he knows she'll be a poor replacement. He curses silently, grin faltering for a moment.

He won't get her out of his head, will he?

"I suppose I'll see you at nine am sharp, Miss Thropp," he says, flashing her a smile as he makes his exit – she's still fuming.

.

"Mr. Tiggular, I can hardly wait."

The words are poisonous. Her fingers twist and flex behind her back – oh, the things she could do to him, the jinxes she could cast, if only they were alone. Her body shakes with indignation, the memory of that smarmy, smirking last smile playing itself over and over in her brain, and her left hand drifts to her right, unconsciously tracing the absence of his fingers.

Damn him, damn it all! She promised Nessa things would be different here, promised not to lose it again in public, no matter how trying the circumstances – but Oz, what wouldn't she give to shoot a spell at the back of that perfectly styled dark hair right now.

"I'll catch you up, Elphaba!" Galinda's voice jerks her out of her reverie. She shoots a knowing, sympathetic smile over her shoulder, tilting her head so that a cascade of golden ringlets hides the expression from Fiyero. "You go on ahead."

Galinda turns back to her prince, eyelashes a-flutter, stretching up on tip-toes as they reach the top of the stairs…and it's clear the happy couple would rather be left to their own devices. She grimaces at the thought, turning quickly away so she doesn't have to watch.

There are essays to be triple-checked, books to be read, research to finish. Fiyero Tiggular will be the last thing on her mind.

Won't he?


	2. History Class

The next morning dawns fair and bright, sunlight melting through the windows of Doctor Dillamond's classroom and illuminating the wrinkled features of his face as he leads the first lecture of the day.

She scribbles as fast as she can, hand aching from the effort of making sure not a single word is lost. Oz, she's going to run out of parchment at this rate – the Doctor is on fire this morning. His face is flushed with the passion, telling a story of Shiz as it once was and his Antelope colleague's controversial opinions on the Great Drought. She's on the edge of her seat, just listening to him.

Perhaps she'd visit the library later, to read up on this infamous friend of his? Or perhaps the Doctor himself could recommend her a good title?

Oz, she loves Shiz.

Galinda's drooping head is a faint, warm pressure against her shoulder, but no matter. The Doctor has long since given up trying to invest Galinda in his lectures and – and she doesn't mind. Not after last night. Not after learning there's more to Miss Galinda Upland – more depth, more kindness, more intelligence…and more pure, open longing for approval and esteem – than she could ever have imagined. Beneath the fountain of blonde curls she takes so many hours to style, there is a brain struggling to work and heart more honest and gentle than she'd ever given her roommate credit for.

Things are going to be different from now on. Now they've come to an understanding. Now they've become…well, as Galinda had put it…friends.

The thought brings a small, private smile to her face and she bends low over her quill to hide it.

.

Fiyero wakes to an unforgiving headache and the taste of sweetened cherries on his lips.

After the three tries it takes him to make out the hands of the grandfather clock across from his desk, he's forcing himself to his feet, cursing his drink - Avaric had spiked it, no doubt now - and stiff joints. He's late - almost regretting the fact he didn't have a roommate to wake him when it was time to leave for classes - and still in his formal wear of the night before.

At least his hair is fairly undamaged from his private moments with Galinda. While not the most experienced, she was a rather enthusiastic kisser - and what glitter and gloss had remained on his lips has transferred to the arm he had slept on. Stroke of luck, he supposes, as he finds his uniform and bag.

It's twenty minutes past nine when he strolls lazily into Dr. Dillamond's class, uniform crisp and shades on the bridge of his nose. Even if it is overcast, it's still far too bright for him.

Essay left at the edge of the professor's desk, he ignores the majority of what Dillamond says as he slips into the space Galinda hurriedly makes for him in the middle of the row. Subsequently, he ends up sitting on the same bench as Elphaba, flashing her smirk before fixing his attention on the blonde.

Or, at least, he tries to, but Elphaba's hair is down and it looks…good.

.

There's just one thing – one tiny, miniscule, absolutely insignificant thing – that's stopping this day from being, in all likelihood, the best of her life so far. And that's Fiyero Tiggular's lounging presence on the bench beside her.

Of course, he's already disgraced himself thoroughly by sauntering in twenty minutes late and chucking half a page of essay on the Doctor's desk – for Oz's sake, how had he even got into Shiz? – and it's not like she has to pay him any attention whatsoever, in spite of his being Galinda's sweetheart…but still. He looks nothing short of abysmal, his hair pressed flat on one side and the most ridiculous pair of shaded glasses obscuring what must be horribly bloodshot eyes.

She shoots him the most unsympathetic look she can muster, before fixing her gaze firmly on the parchment once again.

.

Oh Oz, he hates this class.

Well, to be entirely fair, he hates just about every class he's forced to take. No matter how many Galinda - magically – appears to be in as well, he can't stand sitting, and writing notes, and listening to lectures of centuries of mistakes and the same basic knowledge schools had been regurgitating for the past decade of his life. His private tutors had been more interesting than this, likely because of how quickly they were replaced as they gave up hope on successfully teaching him. And as Dr. Dillamond continues, he almost misses his lessons on princely etiquette and the basics of ruling a kingdom.

Elphaba's obvious rapture with the lecture - and the headache-inducing scritch of quill on paper - do little to soothe his irritation. He's come to this class to...to...

To what exactly?

At some point, there had been a reason. Some inane idea to see Elphaba again, probably, that had made sense when he was half-drunk and three-fourths asleep.

But now, sitting here, fighting a hangover and dying of boredom over the history of Oz, he berates himself for even thinking it was worth it. He's dragged himself out of bed, forced half the essay on paper, and actually arrived to a class for what? To see a girl who wouldn't give him so much as half a glance, much less the time of day?

.

"My dear students," the Doctor intones, bending over his desk towards them and lowering his voice to a half-whisper; the passion has deflated now, leaving behind only a faint gleam in his eyes. It's the sort of look that always precludes talk of Animal Rights. Forbidden talk, talk that wakes everybody up and prompts the very best discussions they ever have at Shiz. Elphaba holds her breath, quill poised over her parchment.

"I am sure that – some of you – will have noticed the disturbing headlines emblazoned across this morning's papers."

His eyes meet hers for the briefest of seconds; she nods frantically, leaning forward in her seat. Of course she'd seen the headlines. How could anyone have missed them? The board of governors – not only at Shiz, but at every educational institution across Oz – had made a unanimous decision to forgo the use of the capital letter, when referring to Animals in lectures, lessons, on-campus and off. A cumbersome and outdated tradition, they'd called it. Oz, what an insult.

The Doctor clearly agrees. He spends the rest of the lesson expanding on the history of the capital's usage – and how disgraceful it was that this practice was slowly but steadily being suppressed.

"It's no coincidence, is it, sir?" she speaks up, when he asks for questions at the end. "The movement has clearly been endorsed – not only by the schools, but the press as well. A systematic sway of opinion."

"Precisely, Miss Elphaba," he beams, clapping his hooves together in a way that makes her glow, inside and out.

"It seems like such a small thing," she continues, feeling the eyes of the class fixed on her – one bloodshot, bespectacled pair in particular, but she refuses to let herself think about that, "but the capital stands as a sign of utmost respect for the Animal community, doesn't it, sir? A public acknowledgement of the Animals' rightful place in society, of your status as 'more than mere beasts' as your friend put it."

.

The class breaks out in whispers. Fiyero isn't really listening - his headache won't allow it - but he catches snide remarks about Elphaba sympathizing with the Animals because she was just as weird, being part of the rumoured second rebellion. He shouldn't really care what they say – after all, they aren't talking about him, and he cares rarely at the few who do speak poorly of him – but even so, he finds irritation curling in his belly as the whispers continue. A few students are bold, speaking loud enough for Elphaba to easily hear them.

Dr. Dillamond isn't deaf to them either. He clears his throat, diverting their attention again, and gently reminding the class of Shiz's policy regarding harassment of students before trying to refocus them on Animal - now animal - rights. This only serves to rile a rotten few into voicing their rather close-minded opinions.

"So what if we take away the capital? It's not like they changed the name -"

"Isn't this a history class, professor, about historic events? This don't count as -"

"They shouldn't just stop there. Everyone knows animals aren't people. They shouldn't be -"

"- Just lock them up!"

.

"How dare you!" Oz, she could wring Avaric's neck for that. "That has to be the most childish, inane –"

.

"And while they're at it, why don't they take people with green-skin too -?"

"- Hey!" His head spins as he twists back to confront Avaric. An insult is at the tip of his tongue, a few choice words to shut him up. His protest, however, doesn't go unnoticed and he feels the eyes of several others on him.

What is he doing, anyway? Defending her?

He swallows. "Keep it down, would you?"

.

What in Oz? Fiyero Tiggular, an Animal rights supporter?

Something inside her gives a stupid little leap of excitement at the thought; she fights the feeling down, fixing the Winkie prince with a hard stare over the heads of the rest of the class. He mumbles a flimsy, half-formed, noncommittal response, sinking lower into his seat and smoothing his perfect hair and oh no, if he thinks he's going to get away with it that easily –

"Speak up, Tiggular," she snaps out, turning her chair with a loud scrape so she can face him full-on. "What were you going to say? Do you think the Doctor and I have a point? Or do you agree with Avaric's impeccably nuanced views on this matter? Tell us. Tell us right now. We're all ears."

"Miss Elphaba," the Doctor chides quietly, but she refuses to move her gaze from Tiggular. His face is entirely unreadable beneath his shades and the knowledge grates at her no end. If he'd just take them off, if she could just look at him…she feels just as she did last night in the Ozdust: heart thumping in her ears, magic hissing at her fingertips, her whole body on-edge.

.

Regret settles cold and heavy at the bottom of his gut as Elphaba stares him down. He's now the centre of the class's attention.

Elphaba - the class outcast – has called him - the school's golden boy of two days - out. No hesitation, no subversion, no attempt at subtly doing it.

His posture doesn't change as he lets his head swing lazily her way, but he's hard pressed for an answer. Animal rights have never been his issue - a mandatory essay topic, sure, but never something he's never personally considered. But then again, Avaric has never been the kind of individual Fiyero's enjoyed associating himself with. Even the deeply shallow have their standards.

Neither opinion guarantees a stellar outcome – ruining his reputation or losing Elphaba's good opinion of him. Although who could call what she thinks of him good? And since when does his reputation ever have equal standing with an individual's opinion of himself?

With a sigh, he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, meeting Elphaba's cold stare.

"I said, could all of you keep it down? As interesting as the history of Oz is, some of us would rather sleep on the textbooks rather than read them."

He's avoiding the question and it's clear Elphaba sees it. Fiyero is sure she's ready to continue, to shout at him until he gives, so he doesn't stop there.

"But if you want my opinion, then here's my reply – you can't have it. A governing royal is taught to listen to both sides of an argument and side with whichever will most benefit the people. Personal opinions matter very little in the world of politics."

It's a low blow and he knows it, but he can't stop himself, not with a growing headache on the heels of sleep-deprived irritation, "Not that you would understand, seeing as your father would rather send you here than pass you his governorship."

.

She's out of her chair almost before he's finished speaking, practically choking with rage – "Well, that makes two of us!" – magic sparking and crackling deep within her clenched fists and no, no, you promised Nessa, don't…

"Miss Elphaba, stop – please, stop at once, or I will have to ask you to leave –!" The horror in Dillamond's voice makes her heart clench, but it's too late. Power and rage have blurred into one, the feeling coursing unstoppably through her veins, and Fiyero's papers are already flying in every direction, his satchel tumbling to the floor and a jagged crack splintering across the top of his desk and oh Oz, she is done for –

.

Whatever thin ice he's been walking on is gone - shattered - and he's falling. He tells himself he isn't afraid when Elphaba rounds on him, the air suddenly smelling of charred wood, whilst something promptly splinters his desk and the floor before it. It's as if the floor attempted to smile, leaving a jagged slice through the wood.

Of course, he's heard rumours that Elphaba had power – but he's fairly sure the worst of the gossipers don't know the extent of her talent.

Or the danger.

The class is still in awe when Dillamond ushers them both outside, with a stern word to Elphaba to not do that again, a sharp look Fiyero's way, and a promise to come for them both after settling the class. He's fairly sure the professor doesn't trust him – but he trusts his favourite student not to make the same mistake again.

Even so, he's ready to continue their argument as soon as the door is closed. He can't sink any lower than he already has and her father's name is on her lips when he turns to her – but it dies, as soon as her face is in view.

She's terrified.

Because his mistake, he realises, is far easier to overlook than hers.

.

Oz, how could she have been so stupid.

In spite of Morrible's seminars, this was the second time she'd lost control in just a few short weeks at Shiz, not even counting Nessa's spinning wheelchair on their first day. And to do it in her beloved Doctor's classroom, of all places? Unforgivable, it was unforgivable – dangerous and disrespectful to the utmost degree, even if Tiggular had been driving her insane.

Later, the disappointment in the Doctor's face as he deals out their punishment is almost too much to bear. She swallows hard, teeth gnawing frantically at her lip to stop herself bursting out. She tears her eyes away from the Doctor's gaze, staring down at her tightly folded hands instead. The fingernails are ruined, every nail ripped to shreds – Galinda would have a heart attack, she thinks – as she'd spent the past half hour tearing at them whilst they awaited their sentence.

When the Doctor dismisses them both – under strict instructions to meet Professor Nikidick in the library, at 8 o' clock sharp that evening, for a double detention – she flees to the dinner hall without paying Tiggular so much as a glance.

Damn it all, what has she done.


	3. Detention

The rest of the day passes in a blur. Galinda doesn't mention the incident even once, demonstrating a show of tact and subtlety Elphaba had never dreamed the blonde was capable of.

It's due in part to this that she consents, over dinner, to hear Galinda's animated opinions on the current state of the Gilikin fashion industry and her Momsie's valiant attempts to set it right at all costs. And whilst the whole thing initially seems rather shallow and insipid, a prime example of everything she had loathed about Miss Upland…by the time they're tucking into dessert, she has to admit the sheer volume of knowledge Galinda possesses on the topic is impressive.

And there's something ridiculously endearing about the way her roommate's entire face lights up at the mere mention of jeweled shoes, or lace-trimmed petticoats, or Vinkun silk scarves.

She hides her disappointment when Galinda insists on visiting the boys' dorms to have a quick check on Fiyero an hour or so before detention is due to start.

.

For once in his life, he's early to detention. Galinda, for all her frivolousness, is the one to remind him of his appointment, pulling away from a series of slow kisses and removing his hands firmly from her waist as the clock strikes half-past seven.

"Your roommate's rubbing off on you," he mumbles, but she just giggles and reminds him that she still dislikes the color green – before pushing him back into the corridor.

"Besides, if you get expelled for not showing up, I'll be without my prince and my Elphie..."

.

Given the rumpled state of Galinda's curls and high, bright patches of scarlet colouring her cheeks when she returns, she and the prince have clearly partaken in more than just a mere chat.

For some unfathomable reason, she can't get that particular thought of out her head, all the way down to the library.

.

At least the professor looks about as excited as Fiyero feels to be spending a good few hours of their evening holed up in poorest-lit wing of Shiz. In honesty, it looks more like a dungeon than a school's library – a thought which amuses him, seeing as the space is practically a cell for the time being.

Hopefully Morrible values her books enough that it's regularly cleaned, although given the state of several candelabras before him - thick with dust, save for the fingerprints which denoted recent use - it seems hardly the case.

Fantastic, he thinks, sinking lower into his seat. The last thing he needs is some sort of reaction to decade's worth of dust caked on every available surface.

A clock begins to chime and the door behind him is flung open. Elphaba – and right on time as well, typical. He's still mildly irritated from before, although the few students he's interacted with since class have all whispered congratulations for 'holding his own' against the 'witch'. It's almost astounding how stubborn his peers are to view Elphaba as the villain, but he doesn't question it. It isn't his issue, as long as his mistake hasn't touched his reputation. If anything, it's gilded it.

.

The familiar smell of old leather and crisp, woody parchment fills her lungs and irons out just a bit of the tension from her shoulders, in spite of the sight that greets her. Professor Nickidick is slouched in one corner, whilst Tiggular lounges in the other, chin slumped on one hand and shaded glasses finally discarded.

His expression is almost entirely unreadable, only the slightest hint of a smirk twitching his lips when Professor Nickidick instructs her to take a seat and she drags her own chair all the way down to the other end of the table – as far away from him as possible – before perching on the very edge of it.

It's nothing short of ridiculous how Oz-damned blue his eyes are, in the light of the setting sun.

Oh, they're bloodshot, to be sure – clearly last night is still catching up with him – but they're also every bit the bold, bright, crystal-clear shade Galinda always simpers about, she can't deny that. The colour is magnified somehow, in the half-light of the library, like the glow of a candle or moonlight caught on the water.

.

Her steely gaze draws no guilt from him, but when it doesn't pull away – what is she staring at anyway? – he feels the beginnings of self-consciousness.

It's not like she's interested in him. It's not like he cares whether or not she could be. He's certainly not interested in her. At all. Not in the way the half-light reflected off her hair, loose and tangled about her shoulders. Or showed the harsh edges of her features, or made her eyes glitter with cleverness untold, or –

He's almost thankful when the professor begins delegating tasks and rules.

.

As detentions go, it isn't the…worst in the world. She wonders errantly if the Doctor had something to do with the nature of her punishment, and swallows down guilt at the thought. Spending two hours in the library sorting, tidying and alphabetizing books is undoubtedly right up her street, though she doubts the same can be said for Tiggular.

Perhaps, if she works quickly enough, she can finish their work in one hour rather than two. Perhaps she can get back to the dorm before Galinda goes to sleep. Yes – yes, that's what she'll do. The thought lights a little flame of hope inside her, and she jumps to her feet as soon as Nickidick leaves them alone, retreating to the other end of the library to smoke his pipe and read the The Ozmopolitan.

Her gaze darts to Fiyero's for the briefest of seconds. The sudden silence is deafening, echoing across the empty space between them.

And sweet Oz, those eyes –

"- Right. Let's get this over with. The faster we work, the faster we can finish."

Each word is like the crack of a whip. She turns on her heel and stalks away, pulling a handful of books from the nearest trolley.

.

For a book worm, he thinks, she's awfully vicious in the way she crams herself and a stack of volumes into one skinny isle of shelves, shoving books back into their spots one by one. A chunk of raven hair catches in the pile; she yanks it loose with one hand, glaring as if it purposefully stuck itself between the spines to spite her. He almost laughs. There's definitely more power in her hands than her lithe, slim figure and delicate –

He nearly falls out of his chair, catching himself at the last second and forcing two legs against the floor with a resounding thunk.

Oz. Had he really been staring - and craning to do so, no less - at Elphaba? His green-skinned classmate - he can't bring himself to say 'freak' like the others and he won't admit she's a 'beauty' - is the whole reason he's stuck in here and not in some broom closet with Galinda instead. He should be irritated and avoiding her at all costs.

But no. He's lounging in a decades-old chair, staring at the one girl who won't give him the time of day like a love-stricken child.

.

She's loathe to speak to him, but after several full minutes of hard work on her part and a grand total of nothing from him – well.

"Tiggular, if you don't get out of that chair this instant, I will call Professor Nickidick and point out how wholly and completely you are neglecting your detention." She kicks a trolley in his direction without quite looking at him. "Get. Up."

.

"Technically, I haven't violated a rule," he mutters, slouching to his feet and grimacing at the handprint he leaves on the first book he touches. "Yet."

.

"Good," she snaps, wrapping both arms around a stack of encyclopedias and a first edition copy of Muchkinland: Then And Now. "Keep it that way."

.

He ignores her, wiping his hand on his trousers with a grimace. The dust looks as old as the books themselves, and quite possibly it is too. Who reads Droughts of the Decades? Elphaba's smarting comment from the night before returns to him and he pointedly tosses the book onto the tabletop before wheeling his cart away.

Just his luck, of course, an unseen novel slips under one foot, sending him toppling back against the cart, which subsequently crashes into one of the shelves of books. It's sturdy enough not to tip over, thankfully, but the impact is loud enough to echo about the library and shower him with dust.

"Fantastic, just -" He barely manages a curse before doubling over with a sneeze.

.

"Tiggular!" she explodes, whipping around just in time to see the entirety of his mishap in all its glory. "Be careful, you idiot, those are spell b –!"

\- She chokes off, the strangest feeling catching in her throat. Something light, and bubbly, and – and familiar, yes, of course, because Galinda had forced it out of her last night as well, somewhere between her ludicrous dance across the dorm room and the sight of her face when Elphaba had happened to mention that a single pair of clumpy riding boots were the only shoes she owned.

This is different though, this is – more. She stamps towards him, arms thrown up in frustration, but her face is crumpling, dissolving into…

"…G-Get up…" she coughs, pressing a palm to her mouth to stop it, but she can't, and oh Oz, the sight of him. Crumpled to the floor like a half-stuffed scarecrow, one arm hooked over the lip of the trolley, the other combing frantically through his freshly dusted hair, sending a shower of white straight into his open mouth – and when he sneezes, mid-curse, she breaks down altogether.

Laughter shakes through her entire body – the most wonderful, warm, easy feeling, as natural as breathing…even if the sound does resemble a mixture of crackling fire and nails on a chalkboard more than Galinda's sweet, wind-chime giggle.

"Y-You…idiot…!" she cackles, but the insult is softened, hardly serious, "you clumsy, hopeless…"

.

He doesn't expect her to laugh, of all things, to pitch backwards from the force of it. His head jerks up, dislodging more dust in the process, and he finds her shaking, head thrown back in a fit of amusement. It's hardly Galinda's delicate giggles, but its genuine and all-consuming and he stares through watering eyes.

He barely notices the insult – he's far too enamoured, breathing shallowly through his mouth and ignoring the resistant tickle of dust in his nose as he watches her. He's almost…pleased, with her laughter at his expense. He's seeing a side of her he knows only a handful of others have.

She shouldn't look as entrancing as she does, cackling and hunched over and breathless as she clutches at her stomach.

"Insult my intelligence as you please, but I am hardly clu -" He's nearly on his feet, only to collide with his trolley again. The floor, he decides, is where he'll remain for the foreseeable future as Elphaba only laughs louder. "And I - I...am not hopeless."

Even to his own ears the protest sounds childish, his breath hitching as he scrubs at his nose.

.

How strange, she thinks, to see that swaggering, devil-may-care mask fall away – much like Galinda's shallow persona had at the Ozdust last night. Beneath it, Tiggular seems younger, rougher around the edges, frustrated and confused in such a schoolboy-ish way by most mundane of everyday tasks that she can't help but grin to herself.

"Dear me, Tiggular, if only your fanclub could see you now." She falls to her knees beside him, shaking her head at the thought as she begins to scoop up fallen books. "Such a blow to your illustrious reputation. How ever would you live it down?"

She laces the words with sarcasm, but there's no malice to it. In spite of all that's been said between them, the situation is too funny, too ridiculous for that.

And it's hard to feel any kind of real…anger towards Tiggular, when he's splayed on the floor in front of her with books spread all around him like some kind of bizarre avalanche and that silly, endearing look of bewilderment frozen on his face.

.

"If they could," he replies smoothly, "I fear they'd be danger in falling more in love with me than before. Who can resist a little weakness?"

He plays it off, fighting the urge to cough as he flashes her a grin, the look ruined only when he's forced to turn away with another two sneezes. If he receives detention again, he resolves, he'll ask for anywhere but the library, no matter the cost.

"I would hardly call this little fiasco a blow," he continues, turning back to her as he fights to force his persona back into place. "No one but yourself has seen my...slip-up and, being Galinda's friend, I can trust you not to," he steps closer, thankful for the few inches he has on her despite the heels on her boots, "jeopardize me, can't I?"

.

Her heart thuds like a hammer as he steps towards her, nails digging into the soft leather of the book she's holding. Ugh, last night had been bad enough – the cocky smile, the swagger, the closeness of their bodies under the dimmed lights of the Ozdust – but here in the library, it's a hundred times worse.

.

For a moment, the air seems to stand still, and his attempt at salvaging his untouchable, golden persona is shot as soon as he looks - really looks - at the girl in front of him. The oil lamps cast a yellow glow, softening her features - not that he truly minds the hard, jagged lines - and reflecting off her irises. His heartbeat is in his ears as her lips part and he briefly wonders if they're as soft as they look, if they taste as sweet and spicy as she smells, and if her hair is as silky as it appears, cascading down her shoulders in soft waves.

Fiyero Tiggular has never known nervous.

But now, standing between dusty books and dusty shelves with an unconventional beauty inches from him, he thinks the twisting of his gut and the tightness of his chest is exactly what it must feel like.

.

The library is bathed in the light of the setting sun. It pours over the flawless features of his face, illuminating every speck of dust in his hair, clinging to the eyelashes that frame gleaming, teasing eyes. The sight does the strangest things to her stomach, something warm and secret coiling into a little knot and what in the name of –

"For Oz's sake, stop that."

The words burst out of her and she forces herself to stamp forward another step, jutting her chin up to meet his gaze – it's just a little stuffy in the library, that's all, and she feels queer because she's had so little sleep.

"That act might work miracles on Galinda, but you should know better than to keep trying it with me. Need I remind you we still have over five hundred books to sort? Preferably sometime before dawn? We have no time to waste pretending to be Prince Charming."

She punctuates the words by shoving another stack of books into his arms, taking care not to let her skin brush his – though a terrible, treacherous little part of her is suddenly aching to.

"Get back to work, Tiggular."


	4. Shouting Match

The moment passes - and before he knows it, she's slamming the books against his chest with a sharp reminder of where they are and why they're there. He stumbles back, finally tearing his gaze from her face - she shouldn't be that captivating as she glares at him – but it's her final comment which he really takes to.

"So…you admit I am charming."

.

She almost walks into the bookshelf at that, catching herself just in time.

"You," she calls over her shoulder, caught between exasperation and an undeniable squirm of delight at how hard he's fighting, keeping the argument going against all the odds, "are incorrigible."

She begins pushing handfuls of books into their corresponding shelves, careful to breathe through her mouth to avoid the whirlwind of fresh dust.

"I said pretending. There's a difference. Tell me, Tiggular, were you this impossible at your last…what was it?" She tilts her head to one side in mock-concentration, pretending to count up the number on bony fingers, "Ah yes – seven universities?"

His chuckle – low and rumbling and rough like velvet and oh, for Oz's sake, just listen to her – makes it very clear he couldn't care less about that fact, or at least, is doing a very good job of pretending he couldn't care less.

"Well, no wonder they kicked you out," she sniffs, slamming a book shut with a little more force than necessary. "How exactly do you expect to get anywhere in life with an attitude such as yours?"

.

"Eight. It was eight universities."

And dozens of tutors, not that she needs to know. Her mutinous expression is enough to coax another quiet laugh from him as another three books are ruthlessly thumped back into place, her sleeve slipping back to reveal a slender wrist and more smooth, emerald skin – not that he cares.

"I believe I've already made my intentions clear. I have none." He remembers the book in his hand and, not bothering to look at the author and determine where it really should go, saunters up behind her, using his extra inches to reach over her head. "The throne is mine in a few years and until then, I'm simply…dancing through life."

.

Oz-damnit, what is that boy doing, what is he playing at, what is this. His chest presses lightly to the curve of her shoulder, breath dusting across her hair as he speaks. His scent is soft, and heady, and so decidedly him: rich fabrics, hair gel and hint of alcohol. She fights back a shiver, silently cursing herself. Her fingers flex, itching to cast a spell and send him flying halfway across the library because that would teach surely him a lesson, but with Nikidick over in the corner, she doesn't dare.

"How?" she demands instead, rounding on him. "How can you think like that? How can anyonein Oz think like that? Of all is the irresponsible, insensitive – for Oz's sake, any other Ozian would give their right arm to be in your shoes!"

I would, she thinks silently, before swallowing hard and banishing all thoughts of Nessa and Father and late-night arguments where she'd shouted herself hoarse and…in light of my daughter's condition, thought it best to propose a small revision to the governors' line of succession…

.

She's shouting - again – eyes blazing as she faces him, and he really shouldn't be as focused on he is on her lips when the air is practically vibrating around him.

Of course. At first glance, who wouldn't want to be in his shoes? Who wouldn't want to be the popular kid with the royal title slapped on? Especially when they had no idea of what exactly came with it. At Shiz, its easy to forget the responsibility that await him back home, the sheer weight of knowing he'll be in his father's place, ruling millions...she may be the governor's daughter, but a governor is so far from royalty that she wouldn't know.

.

"To…to hold such an honour," she goes on, shaking the memories away, fighting to keep the strength in her voice, "to have a throne awaiting you, to have the chance to make a shred of difference in this land, you – you have no idea - you treat your legacy as something to be laughed away, something far-off, easy-going, trivial – little more than a joke!"

.

"That's because it is!" he tries to protest. "The whole thing is a joke -!"

But she doesn't stop, closing the gap between them, her face twisted with something…something personal; it seems he's touched on the same sore nerve as before and she's very quickly stomping onto thin ice herself.

.

"Answer me this, Tiggular." She's close, too close to him, unable to help herself, up in his face, "How exactly do you plan to rule your people if you don't know the first Oz-damned thing about them? How will you bring about the end of the Great Drought for good, if you won't even write a proper essay about it? How will you help the Animals' regain their deserved rights if you can't be bothered even listening to an Animal professor? How will you live up to the expectations of millions when you can't even live up to those of your own father?!"

.

He doesn't move. He can feel his suave facade slipping away, even as he towers over a panting Elphaba.

"Y-You're right. Yeah, I've – I've disappointed my father, my family, my ancestors. What royal gets himself kicked out of university after university? What royal couldn't give less thought to politics and more to a pretty face? How could a royal like that deserve a throne - unprepared and apathetic? But does that matter - no! Because no matter what I do I will still be a prince, I will still be next in line, and I will still rule. It doesn't matter what I do or say or how far I run because no matter what, my bloodline dictates I will be king!"

.

There's something raw and fractured in Tiggular's voice that makes her pause. Sweet Oz, she's hit a nerve. A nerve every bit as powerful as the one he'd hit in her, only moments ago. Is that really…shame she can see, brimming over somewhere in the depths of those cool blue eyes? Is that guilt – remorse even, in the clenched set of his jaw and the trembling hands he gestures wildly at her?

Her heart thumps with a mixture of pity and – the oddest sense of relief, in spite of herself. It's like seeing him, the real him, for the first time. Her stomach swoops at the realisation, though she hardly knows why.

Of course, she doesn't give two twigs what his true character is, but it's her responsibility to know, for Galinda's sake, obviously, seeing as they're friends now, and she should know things like this, should know him like this; raw, vulnerable, open, voice ringing with real emotion and eyes burning with a sheer, total, absolute feeling that sends shivers down her spine…

…Fiyero, she thinks, and for the first time, it feels right to use his name, rather than the pretentious family title that spoke to his heritage more than his character. Fiyero.

It's only when he blinks at her in dumbfounded shock that she realises the name has escaped her lips out loud.

"- I – you talk as if –" She's practically choking to cover her tracks, but she won't let herself break his gaze, she won't, she won't. "- You talk as if you don't even want it. The throne. Why? Why is that?"

Her tone is measured, but the words still rattle out like gunfire, demanding answers.

"Don't you care about the Vinkuns, about your homeland, about its future? Contrary to what Galinda's silly tabloids would have us believe, it seems you do care for your father's opinion of you, a great deal. What's more, you do comprehend the gravity of your actions – not to mention, the sheer stupidity of them. Then why not simply pick yourself up? Put in the damn effort? Become the heir your people deserve? It doesn't make a shred of sense. And if you'd truly rather throw away the throne…"

She hesitates, biting back a poisoness remark and mellowing her voice instead, remembering the way he'd looked only moments ago: the earnestness, the honesty, the surprising awareness of the world – and of himself – that he clearly possessed in spades, "…well, what in Oz's name do you want to do with your life?"

.

Later, he'll realize the mistake he's made.

But now all he can feel is his heart racing and the weight of the world on his shoulders, forcing him down, dragging him back to Vinkus and his father and the goddamned crown.

Later he'll fervently plan how he'll prevent himself from ever slipping again, how he'll ensure no one else will know, how he'll play the shallow prince and how he'll make himself believe that that's what he is. That that is how he'll be happy.

But right now...

"Tell me, Thropp," he doesn't spit her name, but the bitterness is there, "do you think I'm fit for the throne? A kingdom? The power to order armies and sway millions?"

Because he does love his country, his family. He does care. And for that, he'll do whatever he can to prove that he doesn't, if only to show them he isn't what they want. What they deserve.

"Do you think my linage alone decides I am suitable for any of that? My father does, my family does – hell, the whole of Vinkus does! But does that make it right?!"

.

"Of course it doesn't, you idiot, of course it's an outdated tradition, of course lineage alone should never dictate the value of a ruler, but that," she cries, arms thrown up again in frustration, "is entirely beside the point! What matters is here and now, Tiggular, and yes, of course you are about as fit for the throne as Avaric is, of course you are unsuitable, but what does that matter? Oz, were you even listening to me –"

She shakes her head in disbelief, running a hand through her hair.

"Quit with the sob story and do something about it. I said it before and I'll say it again: pick yourself up. Put in the damn effort. Become the heir your people deserve. Is that so hard for you to comprehend? Is that idea so impossible to you?"

She squints at his face, taking in the pain, the guilt, the anger…Oz, she can't understand it. Can't understand him. Doe he really have that little faith in himself? The idea makes no sense to her, the concept of being so innately unworthy that even hard work and brute determination could never fix it. Nonsense, pure nonsense.

Hard work and determination could fix anything. Surely he knew that?

.

"It's – I – well –"

Fiyero finds himself choking on his tongue as she glares at him, shouting brutal honesty like no other. And it hurts, it does – but it'd be a lie to say he doesn't hang on every word.

He steps back, torn between pouring his heart out and throwing up his walls again. But Thropp wants no sob story and he knows he's given up enough.

"Because – because it's pointless! After a decade of not trying, how can a few years do anything?"

Better, some dark part of him decides, to stay on this track. Life's more painless, for the brainless...

.

And then, just like that…his entire demeanor changes. The raw, real, honest side of Fiyero she's been privy to trickles away like rainwater, all the shame and world-wearied resignation and deep-seated fervor and honesty and want dissolving into nothing.

.

He forces himself to smile, stretching his lips into a grimace of teeth and charm because that's what he knows how to do - that's all he knows. And the longer he puts up the façade, the more he'll believe it.

"Besides, why – why change anything…when I've already got this school wrapped around my little finger?"

.

Oh, so they're going to play that game, are they? The game where he lapses back into a brainless playboy whenever she digs too close to the truth? The grin that stretches across his face is painfully, blindingly wide and she resists the urge to scream with frustration at the sight of it.

Clearly, she's hit the nail on the head. And he's simply too Oz-damned cowardly to admit it.

"You've given up." Her voice is flat, toneless, a statement of fact. "You'd rather proclaim defeat right now than even attempt to make something of yourself. You'd rather cling to that stupid, shallow, devil-may-care façade than risk trying and failing to become the ruler your people deserve. You've convinced yourself it's too late, it's been too long, it won't be enough…"

The thousand-watt grin falters just a little at that, and she dives in for the kill – "You'd rather tell yourself it's hopeless and cling to some flimsy, superficial semblance of fame you've built up for yourself than even tryto fix things, wouldn't you? Wouldn't you?"

Her gaze is cold and withering, like he's something nasty on the end of her shoe, something too pitiful even bother getting shouting about. She feels no anger, anymore. Just a cool, absolute detachment.

She is done with him.

"Well, you may have fooled yourself, Tiggular. But you'll have to do better than that to fool me."

She turns on her heel and disappears back into the sea of bookshelves without another word.


	5. Rescue

Without a doubt, this girl brings out the very worst in him.

The hours pass in silence, and he likes to say he does his share of work, sorting through the books that wait in a hundred years' worth of dust – but he keeps finding himself standing and staring. The devil-may-care prince he wants to be would've ditched this job ages ago - wouldn't have bothered even looking at Thropp - and the studious, dedicated prince he's supposed to be wouldn't have even earned himself detention.

So who was he, really?

Next morning dawns all too soon, but he still makes time before class to find Galinda, who babbles on about how she's been helping 'Elphie' become beautiful and popular. He doesn't really listen - she's beautiful enough as it is, some small part thinks - and loses himself in her lips and the overpowering floral scent of her perfume instead.

Elphaba, at least, looks as tired as he is when he makes it to class several minutes late.

.

She's still yawning when the Doctor enters the classroom, glasses askew and hooves trembling by his sides as he clears his throat.

"Doctor?" She blinks hard, shaking herself a little more awake. "Doctor Dillamond, are you feeling all right? What is it?"

Her voice raps out and all eyes in the class turn to her, but she doesn't care. Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong.

"My d-dearest students," the Doctor begins in a voice raw with feeling, his lip quivering in a way that makes her heart clench and she's out of her seat before she can stop herself – "No, no, Miss Elphaba, please –"

His eyes meet hers, warm and amber and absolutely firm – and she staggers to a standstill with one arm still half-outstretched towards him.

Oh no. Oh no, no, no.

His voice is soft with the same kind of fear they'd shared that very first lunchtime together, over stale sandwiches and slightly crumpled paper, a memory so precious and yet bittersweet in her mind, and those whispered words, crystal-clear in her head…Miss Elphaba, I've heard of an Ox, a professor from Quox, no longer permitted to teach…

...Permitted to teach…

.

Oz, what's going on? The whole class is abuzz - especially when Morrible herself strides in, followed by two stony-faced government officials clad in grey.

Of course, there are rumours aplenty of what's been happening in Oz. More and more positions closing, Animals being denied their rights - small ones, but rights nonetheless – not to mention the occasional whispers of resistance groups just...vanishing. None of it nearby, of course. None of it occurring in Shiz or just outside their door. None of it close enough to really matter.

Until now.

.

"- Madam!" Her voice is somewhere between a cry of rage and a desperate, choking attempt to reign herself in, to keep her head, to control the magic coursing through her veins like wildfire. "Madam, please, you can't permit this, you –"

"Miss Elphaba, don't worry about me, it will take more than this to stop me from speaking out!"

.

Dillamond doesn't stop shouting as they pull him away, the desperate cries of a dead man, a cornered animal. And while Fiyero may not possess Elphaba's passion on the subject, he feels like he's been dunked in ice as their professor disappears.

He feels even worse when he sees Elphaba's face.

This isn't right, she'd said. You'd rather tell yourself it's hopeless...than even try to fix things, wouldn't you? Wouldn't you?

True to her words, he does. He remains silent and still, keeping his head low and expression neutral. His peers are too distracted to notice how his smile has slipped.

Besides, it's not like he could've done anything...

.

"Miss Elphaba. Miss Elphaba, sit down."

Morrible's voice drifts to her as though from a great distance.

The Doctor is gone. The Doctor, her Doctor…her brilliant, impassioned, inspiring Doctor…gone. Dragged away by the very officials he'd so fearlessly spoken out against. Obliterated from the public eye by the same powers he'd condemned.

Silenced…just like all those other Animals.

The significance of it all weighs on her like a heavy cloak, her head throbbing as she tries take it all in. She drops onto the nearest bench without checking to see if it's occupied – a familiar faint, musky scent drifts in her direction, but there are more important things to think about right now than who she's sat herself next to.

.

He's genuinely surprised when Elphaba sits - well, more like falls - down onto the seat next to him, close enough that her shoulder brushes his. Oz, she's devastated. And it's clear whatever Morrible is saying to lessen the blow is going completely unheard – not that he's listening either, but for entirely different reasons.

He's seen her angry - furious, disgusted, curious, upset, passionate...but never devastated. He shouldn't care as much as he does, but – but Oz, he can't look away, he can't help but feel guilty.

.

She's so entirely lost in thought – thoughts of Animal Rights, and Dillamond's theories, and Morrible's indifference, and the stupidity of it all, the sheer injustice of the situation- that she hardly hears a word their new replacement lecturer is saying…until he pulls out a large, covered contraption that twitches and rattles so loudly she can't help but jerk out of her daze.

Cage, the lecturer pronounces it, with a casual sweep of his thick, luxurious wool coat and a nasty smile she doesn't like one bit. Cage.

The worst tastes odd in her mouth, cold and unfamiliar. What in Oz is this man trying to teach them?

.

Cage?

He jerks his gaze from Elphaba's face to find one of the grey-clothed men tugging away a blanket to reveal a mess of metal bars surrounding...is that a lion cub?

What's a cage?

Neither he nor Elphaba voices the question, but he knows a similar thought as crossed her mind. The contraption is vaguely familiar, memories surfacing of holidays taken to far off kingdoms, of castles with rooms filled with exotic creatures...all kept behind metal bars. At the time, they'd been curiosities and, later, the butt of many a joke.

But now, it no longer holds the same amusement.

.

She has to clap a hand to her mouth to stop herself crying out.

Dear Oz, it's a cub. A real life Lion cub – there's no mistaking the gleam of heightened awareness in its eyes, brimming over with intelligence and focus and feeling far beyond that of any normal animal. The poor little creature is curled into a ball of trembling, butter-coloured fur in one corner of the cage, and her heart jumps to her mouth at the sight. Something that small, that precious, that innocent – and they'd locked him in a metal prison?

"…Actually for the animal's own good, you see." She catches the end of their new professor's proclamation, the absence of the capital letter impossible to miss, and her jaw snaps together audibly –

"If it's so good for him," she hisses through clenched teeth, "then why is he trembling? Hm? Look at him – look!" She's already half out of her seat, jutting a finger in the cage's direction, anger coursing through every inch of her body. "Are you blind, Professor? You call that good -?!"

.

He's more than a touch sceptical, and it's clear he isn't alone. Animals have always run free, save for those imprisoned for criminal offenses - although, nowadays, he's heard the definition of such offenses has become rather elastic.

Not that he cares - he doesn't! This isn't his business, this hardly affects him, he doesn't care, he shouldn't care...

…But Elphaba cares…

"Yes," the Professsor's reply is punctuated by a sharp smack against the cage, sending the cub scrambling to the other side, "it is. As I was saying, one of the benefits of caging a lion cub this young is that he will never, in fact, learn how to speak."

.

"No…" Her voice is barely more than a whisper: she feels as though all the air has been knocked out of her by those five terrible, impossible words. "Never learn how to...no."

It's too much. Too much to take in, too much to comprehend. First Dillamond, now this? Cages and Lion cubs and silence of progress? Has the world gone mad?

Her thoughts splinter into fragments, spilling out of her like they always do, and she spins in her seat to face the class, to cry out –

"Did you hear that? A world where Animals are kept in cages and never speak? The very idea – Oz, it's unthinkable, outrageous -!"

No one's listening. They're all too busy falling over books and bags and sending each other flying in their attempt to reach the professor's desk, crowding around the cage to gawp at the Lion cub. The only person still seated is –

"- Tiggular," she almost gasps in relief, because anyone is better than no one, and his eyes are wide and blue and fixed on hers, "did you hear that, did you hear what he said? What are we going to do?"

.

If it is possible, Elphaba looks even worse than before – and yet he can't help but stare, captivated and struggling against the instinct to reach out, to say something, to help.

She's beautiful, yes, but not just that. She's passionate and devoted and clever and destructive - of his hard-won habits and carefree facade. So he's stuck, torn between standing up and leaving...or standing up and joining her.

"- Tiggular." She's speaking so fast and he's thinking about too much - thinking too much, period - to process everything at once.

"What are – wait, we?" he blurts.

Most of the class has crowded around the cage now, the lecture continuing in muted tones. What's she talking about, what could they do? He wasn't going to do anything of his own volition. This wasn't his fight, this wasn't his problem, this wasn't...Oz, his attempts at convincing himself to turn away are quickly failing.

Now, of all days, he had wishes he had skipped class.

"There's nothing to do." She doesn't seem to hear. "Thropp, there's noth – Elphaba! There's nothing we can do!"

.

"Well, somebody has to – has to -!"

No, no, she shouldn't. She shouldn't, but she is. She's going to lose it. Any second now. The magic churns through her veins, pulses through every cell in her body, anger and desperation fuelled into sheer absolute power. Too late to even try and stop it.

Tiggular's gaze meets hers, horrified realisation dawning just a split-second too late – and her last thought before it all explodes is one of dust-covered books, and cocky grins showing perfect teeth, and laughter shaking her entire body, and a warm hand catching her wrist in his, and those eyes, and not him, please Oz, not him –

.

In the split-second before the room erupts into chaos, he's terrified that this time she won't miss.

There's no bolt of light, or flash of colour, or grandiose gesture beyond Elphaba's splayed palms. The Professor arches back with a scream, the rest of the class scattering in a frenzy of limbs and shouts. Several desks fly back, papers ripped from bags and books sliding across the floor.

.

She turns on her heel with arms outstretched and fingers grasping stupidly at thin air – but there's no way to undo what's been done, no way to reign in the kind of power she's let loose.

Oz, what a sight. She's not even sure what she's managed to induce, this time: students spasm in every direction, whilst the professor jerks and twists as though trapped in some kind of silent fit. She claps both hands to her mouth at the sight, staggering back against the nearest desk –

\- "Stop!" her voice breaks out, thin and pathetic amongst the din of yelping, terrified students. "Stop, stop it!"

.

Fiyero staggers back as well, seconds before his entire body seizes up; he isn't unaffected, but he doesn't fall into a strange fit like the others.

Instead, the classroom melts away and for a split second, he can hear things - people.

"She...the Wizard...Fiyero -" It's Galinda, he recognizes her voice.

"Water will -" All he can feel is unimaginable loss.

"It'll make you happy too, right?" Galinda again but...sadder, more world weary. What on earth -?

"Let the green girl!" He feels so sure, so ready to give it all up for -

"FIYERO!" It's drawn out and desperate and...familiar.

White hot pain erupts across his back -

\- And whatever that was...fades.

It's your choice.

Fiyero finds himself hunched over, near one of the overturned desks, the final three words echoing in his mind.

His choice? Over what?

Elphaba is a few feet away, pale and breathless, her chest heaving. There'll be punishment for this, he's sure. This kind of outburst, without Dillamond to lessen the blow – she'll be expelled, or worse. He glances her way again, stomach sinking. No matter what he tells himself - Oz, he does care. Far too much.

It's your choice.

Their peers and professor continue to twist in some convulsing dance and in the centre of it all, the cage and the cub.

He could help.

It's your choice.

His resolve hardens when his gaze turns back to her.

He could. And he will.

"Just don't...don't move. And don't get mad at me."

He pushes himself to his feet, head aching with echoes of whatever just happened, and snags the cage. There's nothing they can do now except run. No plans, no regrets.

"Come on!"

.

Her head swings between them both. Professor Silence-of-Progress is doubled-over and twitching on the floor, a mess of students still thrusting and jerking around him as though pulled by invisible puppet strings…whilst Fiyero hovers by the door, wide-eyed and sweating and clutching the cage with one arm, the other outstretched towards her.

But it's the Lion cub's mournful wail – and the wide caramel eyes, burning at her through the bars of the cage with the kind of pure, unbridled terror that would have broken Doctor Dillamond's heart – that make up her mind for her.

"Yes," she breathes, "yes, we'll set him free, we'll get him outside -!"

The professor makes a sound like a strangled cat, one hand clawing the air in protest – but they're already halfway out the door.

"Follow me – know the way," she pants as they thunder down the stairs, the cage shaking between them, "through – East Wing, down to the ground floor –" She's trying to take the cage from him, trying to grab it with one arm, but he keeps jerking out of her reach, "- through door – kitchens – Tiggular, give me the cage -!"

.

Fiyero follows her through the halls, heart pounding and the cage rattling against his chest. His head throbs in tune with their echoing footsteps, and the cub - unaware of its rescue - claws at him through the metal bars. An unlucky swipe leaves a cut along his jawline, several more tearing up his sleeves and palms.

But he keeps going, because he is a coward and he cannot find the courage to break away and turn back.

It's your choice.

Especially not when she's leading.

"Just keep going!" He wrenches the cage out of reach, dodging hanging pots and pans as they charge through the empty kitchens. "I can manage it!"

His legs and chest are burning when they finally stop at the edge of the grounds, mud staining their boots and wintry air clawing at their cheeks. For a moment, he forgets the cub, letting the cage hang at his side as he tries to catch his breath, tries to organise his thoughts and comprehend what he just saw...

…And what he just did.


	6. Confrontation

She staggers to a halt beside him, bracing one hand against a nearby tree and panting so hard it feels as though her lungs are on fire.

Sweet Oz.

Have they really done it? Have they really managed to escape unnoticed? She pushes sweaty hair out of her face, eyes falling on Tiggular as he too struggles to catch his breath.

Now is hardly the time or place, but she can't help but notice he's looking a bit tidier this morning. Hair combed, shirt neatly pressed, waistcoat properly buttoned up, eyes clear and bright and free from any trace of bloodshot. Oz, he looks almost respectable. Almost like the clean, accomplished, hardworking prince he should be.

You see, Tiggular, she longs to quip with all the sarcasm she can muster, see what wonders a little effort can make on even the most unfortunate of characters?

But right now there are more important matters to focus on than Tiggular's appearance, of all ridiculous things – even if his waistcoat is clearly too small for him, each button pulled tight and the material straining against the muscles of his chest as he exhales softly…

...The cub – the Lion cub, that's what matters. Yes. That's why they're here. And right now, Tiggular's handling him more like a sack of potatoes than anything else, letting the cage dangle idly from one hand.

"Be careful with that," she raps out, reaching for the cage.

.

He half-hears her, enough to swing the cage out of her graso, because he isn't about to burden her with its weight and the last thing she needs is her uniform torn and bloodied as well. Glinda had mentioned, in passing, that Elphaba had given up half of the other closet so she could store excess shoes, during which the blonde had discovered her roommate's disparaging lack of clothing. Or, as Glinda had specifically stated –

"And I don't mean that because there's nothing sparkling or even remotely pink, a travesty of its own right if you ask me…but it's the size of her wardrobe. Barely enough uniforms for the week, and three frocks. There's a winter jacket, I'm sure but...there's nothing there, Fiyero. Nothing personal, just these dull, lifeless –"

"Stop throwing him around!" Elphaba's voice snaps him back to reality. "Use both hands. Anddon'tshake him! He's a living, breathing Animal – not a keg of Winkie wine!"

.

He ignores her, striding on into the woods with a toss of that perfectly gelled hair, cage still tucked under one arm.

"Where, exactly, are you going?" she storms after him, boots scattering leaves and poppy petals - the woods are full of them - in her wake. "We can't just let him loose anywhere, you know! We have to find someplace safe, someplace he won't be scooped up and imprisoned all over again!"

.

He's just risked it all for an animal. For her. And she has the gall to berate him as if he is in the wrong?

The cub lets out a pathetic mewl as he rounds on her.

"Do you ever stop talking? Keep shouting and maybe Morrible will hear you from the tower!"

.

Her mouth opens to retort almost before he's finished his sentence – after all, she's inevitably going to disagree with whatever it is he's saying until the whole thing blows up into another spectacular, blazing argument and she's more ready for it, heart beating fast in her chest and something uncannily like exhilaration pulsing through her veins and Oz, she's starting to enjoy fighting with him far too much –

– But then she sees his face. And it's the first sign of real hurt, real indignance that she's ever seen from him. The shock of it stops her, just for a moment. Something about those words ignites a memory - Galinda sitting her down after class one day, taking her hand so gently in hers, and saying with more care and tact than she'd ever dreamed the blonde was capable of; Elphie, sometimes, it's really important to let the people around you have their time to speak, even if you don't like what they're saying…

"…All right." She barely mumbles the words, stuffing her hands deep in the pockets of her skirt and settling for scowling at the poppies beneath their feet instead. "All right, fine. Go ahead."

.

With a huff he starts into the forest again, shoulders squared.

"No one goes through the forest anymore. Believe me." He detaches one hand from the cage to loosen his tie and undo the first few buttons of his waistcoat, breathing easy as the fabric gives way. "Not since they built that road just a little way to the north. It's long since been regularly maintained, my family's used it for years now. Setting him free out here will be our best b –"

.

"- Can I just say one more thing?" she cuts in, and his expression is almost funny, practically despairing as she throws up her arms to stop him speaking. "One. More. Thing."

Oz, it's as though he's trying to push her buttons harder than ever, because the voice he'd spoken with was open and honest, determined and…intelligent. Sharing a little tidbit of genuinely useful knowledge. And that little word, that little our makes her heart sing in her chest and roar with frustration all at the same time because really now…why in Oz's name does he care?

She draws in a breath – then jabs a finger in the direction of the towers, looming over the thick canopy of trees above them.

"You could have walked away back there." She lifts her chin, fixing him with her gaze and trying – dear Oz, how she's trying – not to notice the waistcoat buttons he's flicked open, and the silk shirt he's wearing beneath it, perfectly tailored to every contour of his body and leaving terribly, dangerously little to the imagination. "You could have taken the easy way out, no strings attached. You could have simply sidled off without a second thought. But you didn't."

.

His blood turns to ice as she stares, expectant of an answer he can't quite admit.

Because she's right. He could have - should have - run away. Acted like her spell had placed him in the same trance as the others instead of...whatever it had really done. He's the goddamn drop-out Winkie Prince, the devil-may-care royal with the scandalicious reputation. He isn't supposed to care, he isn't supposed to think, he isn't supposed to ruin the perfectly carefree reputation he's built up for himself.

"So?"

It's weak, but he doesn't know what else to say. She expects some revelation, like always, but he isn't ready to give one.

.

The word hangs in the air – the strangled, desperate edge to his voice echos through the trees around them, making a point for her – whilst Tiggular takes a great interest in the forest floor all of a sudden.

"So," she pushes, taking a step closer and ducking her head to make sure she can read his face. "What, exactly, does that tell us? No matter how shallow, and self-absorbed, and irresponsible, and lazy, and – and downright unbearable you pretend to be – no matter how hard you try not to care, to be the absolute worst version of yourself -"

.

"Excuse me? There's no pretence here."

His gaze jerks up and suddenly Elphaba is much, much closer. He'll pride himself later on not choking his words because she's as radiant in the late afternoon sun as she was in the Ozdust ballroom. He could simply close the gap between them with a single step.

"I happen to be genuine self-absorbed and deeply shallow, and have forever prided myself in how unbearably irresistible I can be. Thropp, whatever you think you're seeing –"

.

"I beg your pardon?" she growls. "Think I'm seeing? You're the one acting blind as an Oz-damned Bat!"

She throws her arms out, slicing them through the air as she gestures to his undone waistcoat, his tousled hair, the cage still clamped in one hand.

"Just look at you, for Oz's sake. Look at what you've done! Look at how you've helped him –" The Cub's buttery-gold eyes peer up at them both, still wide with fear but calmer than before, devoid of the blind panic they'd held back in the classroom. "- carried him halfway across campus, saved his life…if that isn't worth something, then what is? Hm? Answer me that, and perhaps I really will start to believe this ridiculous delusion, this – this fantasy you're so determined to sell to us all."

That strikes a nerve. Something unreadable twitches in his expression – a crack in the china, a chink in the armour…like throwing a tiny stone into a perfect, smooth, serene pool and setting it rippling.

Her feet take on a mind of their own, lurching towards him as though desperate to capture that tiny, fleeting glimpse of Fiyero, the real Fiyero, raw and honest and brimming over with emotion as he had back in the library for a too-short moment. Those beautiful eyes are suddenly so tired it makes her ache to the core, a man who's spent a lifetime running a thousand miles away from something only to have it catch him up at the very last, very worst moment.

"…Look at you," she says again, but her voice is a murmur now, all the anger draining away in spite of herself. "Look at what you're doing to yourself, for Oz's sake. If this really, truly were for the best…" She lets her breath out in a slow sigh. "Tiggular…why is it making you so unhappy?"

.

She's easy to take when she's shouting - passionate through and through, yes, but the angrier she gets, the less she thinks. The easier the questions are to deflect.

But his plan shatters when she quiets, reigning herself in. Instead of berating him with blows that'll easily bounce off his armour, she resorts to quiet attacks. Whispered logic and reasoning that he can't stop from slipping through and breaking him apart.

Unhappy? Him? This isn't the first time he's been asked this, but this is the first time he can't simply run away. Can't make himself forget with drink or dances or a pretty girl. There's no escaping her. No escaping the undeniable hope in Elphaba's stare that, maybe, he's redeemable.

Nonetheless, he finds himself scrambling.

"Me? Unhappy?" The laughter sounds like the lie it is to his own ears. "You know me -"

But it'll make you happy too...right? The voice echoes dully at the back of his mind, and he finds himself repeating the next few words like a memory.

"- I'm always happy."

.

Can he even hear himself? Even his laughter is false, a kind of choking, breathy sound in the back of his throat that makes her want to cringe with disgust and throttle him all at the same time.

Instead, she draws herself up. Takes another breath. Fights down the anger, the frustration, the desire to shout in his face all over again. No, that wasn't the right way to reach him. She knows that now. No matter how tempting it might be, no matter how much of a thrillit gave her.

The right way to reach him, the real him, was…

"Tiggular." Her voice is calm, but absolutely firm. "I read the papers. I hear the gossip, in spite of my many attempts not to. And that other night in detention? Oz, the way you carried on, anyone listening with half a brain cell would have realised the truth."

Her feet drift closer involuntarily, and her eyes flit to a point somewhere between his neck and collarbone, unable to quite meet his gaze as she mutters with all the cold detachment as she can muster, "You drink more than my dear Father ever did and that, Tiggular, is saying something. You survive on a diet of dancing, partying, petty troublemaking and scandal. You burn through schools as fast as you burn through girls, your country lives in shame of all that you do, your family publicly slanders your name at every opportunity they have…dear Oz, Tiggular, if that makes you happy, I have nothing left to say to you."

.

It's all he can do to stand his ground and let Elphaba pick him apart - for the second time - and leave him barren. No defensive smiles or dancing away. No excuses, no armour. Just consequences.

And shame.

He can't fight that – can't fight her. Not without giving up even more.

"Fine." He can't remember the last time he's been this quiet, the last time he's spoken without careful thought of how cocksure and carefree he sounds. "If you don't want my help, then don't bother keeping me."

She's more than capable of freeing the cub anyways. And maybe, if he's fast enough, he can salvage some part of his –

.

"- Wait," she raps out, but he doesn't. His jaw is clenched tight and his eyes staring at nothing as he turns away, leaving the cage dumped unceremoniously at her feet.

Damn it all, she's gone too far.

"Wait!" He doesn't. He just speeds up, instead.

For the love of –

"- Tiggular!" she shouts, breaking into a run. "Stop – get back here! I never said – I didn't mean –!"

What, what, what didn't she mean? Didn't mean to go so far? Didn't mean to say so much? No, she'd meant all of those things, every word, but she hadn't – she hadn't meant to hurt him.

The thought sends her heart plummeting in her chest, and she thinks of detention, and dusty books, and laughing until her mouth ached from it, and Oz-damnit, he might drive her mad, but she's really hurt him this time and panic twists in her stomach, and she's throwing herself across the clearing at him, hand outstretched, reaching, grabbing –

"- I do -!"


	7. Touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: I'm sorry to say that my writing partner PainicPanic (that is, Fiyero) has asked me to please apologise to you all on her behalf and explain that she is no longer able to continue with this story due to time constraints and personal business. I'm afraid I don't know any more details beyond that. We still have another chapter to post after this one, but following that, this story will be placed on hiatus. I can only apologise, guys. I really hope you enjoy these last few chapters.

Everything goes still, for a moment.

Fiyero freezes, something warm clamped around his wrist, squeezing his gash a touch too tightly and holding him back. The cage and cub forgotten, Elphaba has practically flown across the carpet of poppies, shouting and apologizing...for him.

She didn't mean it? When has she ever gone back on her word? She meant what she said, he's sure of it – and what she said was the truth. He is a coward and a disgrace – and the only thing he's good at is pretending he doesn't care. Although now, she's proven he can't even convince himself of that fact.

After years of this act, how in Oz can she just dismantle it all in the space of ten minutes?

His skin burns where she touches him. And he can't help but crave more. She's torn him open, he has nothing to lose. Who is to say he couldn't turn on his heel and close the gap between them, tilt her face to his and seal his fate with a –

.

The Cub yowls, and she realises with a jolt how close they are, how intently she's gazing at their linked hands –

"- I'm – I'm going to –"

She staggers back across the clearing, petals crushed and scattered in her wake, almost striding right past the cage before jolting herself to a halt. Focus, Elphaba, focus. The Cub, that's what matters. They're here to save the Cub.

She bends to peer through the bars. The tiny creature is curled into a ball of honey-coloured fluff in the far corner of the cage and her heart aches at the sight.

"Poor little thing, he's trembling."

Fiyero's footsteps are close behind her, his breathing just slightly uneven as he drops to his knees beside her, the silk of his sleeve brushing her elbow and focus, Elphaba, focus…

"The – the last thing I wanted to do was frighten him." Her voice sounds strange, false, too-casual. "And look what we've done."

.

We've. Look what we've done.

He crouches at the other end of the cage, finally shucking his jacket and folding it over his scratched arm.

"Better out here with us than back there with – well." He clears his throat and tries again. "He'll be fine. Soon as he's out of that cage. Although...I can't say the same for the rest of the class."

It's a hell of a way to try and start up a conversation – she's sensitive when it comes to her magic and whatever truce they've struck up is anything but stable – but it's all he's got.

"What…did you do back there to them? And…why didn't you do the same to me?"

.

She goes very, very still at that.

"...How should I know?" Don't think about it, don't think about it. Her mouth is dry, fingers slipping on the latch of the cage. "I've no idea. A lucky coincidence, most likely. Nothing more. What does it matter?"

His gaze is steady, unreadable, unflinching. Damn him, he's seeing straight through her. A shiver glides up her spine, but the feeling is neither as cold nor as unpleasant as it should be. It's like he's reading every one of her thoughts, flicking through her wants and needs and joys and fears like they're pages of a book. Those eyes see straight past the lurid skin of her face and straight into the deepest, darkest, most secret parts of her.

The knowledge makes her want to fly into a rage, and curse him into oblivion, and flee the forest, and…and simply sit here...letting him gaze, and gaze, and gaze at her...all at the same time.

A ray of sunlight filters through the leaves, illuminating something on his cheek; a thin scratch marring perfect, marble-smooth skin. Her insides twist at the sight – he'd injured himself, the idiot, injured that beautiful face for the sake of the Cub.

"Your cheek," she murmurs, swallowing hard as a trickle of blood runs down his cheek – there's something wrong about the sight, something that makes her heart ache, her hand twitching by her side. "You're…you're bleeding."

.

This is…new.

Instead of him trying to slip out from underneath her piercing stare, he's finally found a chink in her armour. He's never seen her be so quiet for so long – and instead of throwing up his usual walls in self-defence, he finds himself letting them fall, watching the flurry of emotions fly across Elphaba's face.

Anger. Fear. Shock. Longing. Loneliness. And...something else.

He moves without realising, trying to find it again, sitting up on his knees and leaning into the sunlight filtering through the trees.

She's never looked at him like this before.

"I'm...I'm what?" His hand flies to his cheek, wincing slightly as his fingers pull away, skin stinging. "I – I am. The cub must've scratched me or something."

.

"Yes. It must have."

Oz, they're close. Too close. His knees are brushing against hers, the sunlight throwing every perfectly carved inch of him into brilliant clarity. She can see a tiny scar on his cheek, a speck of mud in his hair – silly, insignificant little things that make her heart race in her chest and ache all at once, and dear Oz, she wants to touch him, she wants to –

"- I'll just – here, let me –"

Some vague, far-away voice inside her is screaming. Screaming at the rest of her to stop, to think, to pull back the hand she's lifting towards him, eyes steady on his as she reaches…reaches…

But then her skin touches his, and the voice falls silent.

She glides the back of her hand across his cheek, wiping the blood away, and Fiyero's breath hitches in a way that does terrible, treacherous things to her insides. His skin is warm and impossibly smooth, every bit the perfect, chiselled statue he resembles, frozen to standstill beneath her touch.

He tilts his face almost imperceptibly, aligning it to the curve of her palm, those eyes meeting hers with something unnameable, something that burns in the cold afternoon sun, and a shiver winds its way down her body that has nothing to do with the wintry weather…

.

Her hand caresses his cheek and words escape him. As much as the cut stings, he can barely feel it as his skin burns upon contact. Whether it is her doing or simply the blush, he doesn't know - nor care, not when she has shifted so close he can drink in every detail of her beauty through the golden glow of the afternoon.

She is no swan, but no less beautiful. Her features are far from delicate or soft, but the sharp lines and defined angles are mesmerizing. His eyes dart from the curve of her slender neck to the slight part of her dark lips to her wide eyes, devoid of their usual anger or disappointment and instead full of wonder, simply...

"...Beautiful," he breathes and a shiver passes over her. Fiyero is prepared to offer his jacket - lost somewhere in the grass - to lean in and wrap it around her shoulders, let himself leave a kiss on her cheek, or perhaps if he is so bold, her lips.

They are close enough. If he were simply to lean forward a little, he could –

"Fiyero!"

It's faint, but familiar enough to break the spell.

"Fiyero! Dearest!"

"I – I'd better get to her –" He's babbling, staggering to his feet, reaching for his coat and a decent excuse. "I mean it – he – the Cub, get the Cub to safety and –"

.

"Yes, we should – we need to hurry up, we mustn't be caught -!"

Her voice is too fast, too high, blurting out words that make no sense. The Cub – they've got to free the Cub, yes, that's it, that's why they're here, Oz-damnit.

She shakes her head furiously, trying to clear it, and makes a dive for the cage at the same moment he does, the warmth of his chest colliding with hers for the briefest of moments –

" – Let me," she blurts, refusing to meet his gaze, though her cheeks are burninglike hot coals; every cell in her body is screaming at her to run, to get as far away from him as possible, quickly, quickly, before Galinda sees you... "Get out of the -!"

"Fiyero, dearest! Where are you?"

Galinda's voice makes them both freeze dead in their tracks, the sound of it drifting through the trees again like some ethereal spirit – sweet and delicate as ever, yet strained with unmistakable worry, and it's her fault, it's all her own stupid fault for flying off the handle and causing this mess and dragging him into it and then...and then…

…Oz-help me, she thinks, feeling the colour drain from her face, and then…

.

When they collide, it isn't so much the force that knocks the wind from him but rather the look she gives him afterwards. He had thought her beautiful when she was seething with anger and mellowing with pity – but seeing her now, he thinks there is nothing that could hold a candle to her. He could stay like this for the rest of the afternoon, Elphaba's slim frame tucked against his chest – sharp wit, flushed cheeks and all, the two of them simply marvelling at each other -

"Fiyero...dearest?"

But Glinda is growing ever closer and well, somebody has to do something…

"Let me -" He wrenches himself away, swearing he only imagines the kiss dropped to her hair, before he snatches the cage and his coat and runs.

.

Seconds later, he's gone. Vanished into the woods with a clink of metal and swish of that perfectly tailored jacket before she can so much as open her mouth to stop him.

The woods are quiet, and still, and lonely around her and she cannot bring herself to move. The wind drifts through her hair, tugging stray pieces across her face and tickling her neck, but she makes no move to brush them away.

She is too busy drowning. Choking. Feeling the cold wash of sheer, absolute shame drench her from head to foot as she scrunches her eyes tight shut and presses both hands to her temples because she won't, she can't, she isn't thinking about blood on her fingers, or smooth skin beneath her fingertips, or smarmy grins that made her heart race, or terribly tight silk shirts, or laughter that filled her with warmth, or absurdly blue eyes that burned her to the core and damn you, damn you, damn you a hundred times over, Fiyero Tiggular…

Dear Oz, what has she done. What...has…she…done.

.

He loses himself in the tangle of branches and brambles before even thinking of stopping. And when he finally does, lungs and legs burning, the clearing - the golden afternoon sunlight and, most importantly, Elphaba - are far, far away.

For a moment, perhaps, he believes this distance will set things right. Will clear his mind, allow his consciousness to remind him why this - why she – is a horrible idea.

But no matter what he tries, after the Cub has been set free and disappears into some bush, he cannot simply slip back into himself. Not with Elphaba's voice in his head and his skin still smarting where she'd touched it.

Even when he races back out into the open, finding Glinda worryingly distraught, hair and make-up almost mussed enough to be considered messy, he can't seem to find himself. No matter how he clutches at her or leaves heated kisses on her pinked skin.

Oh Oz, he can barely feel the blonde's touch.

Damn you, Elphaba Thropp.

What has he done?


	8. Turning Point

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Thank you for sticking with us for so long, guys. This story will be marked as complete, but if PainicPanic is ever able to pick it up with me again sometime, I will let you all know. Watch this space. Once again, thank you for all your support and reviews. I hope you have a lovely rest of 2016.

The rest of the day passes like a dream. A vague, unfocused, otherworldly dream. Her thoughts go in circles, around and around until she's driven half-mad by it. What had happened between them was nothing, of course. Nothing at all. It was moment of madness – a silly, accidental _something_ and nothing more. It wasn't worth thinking twice over.

Of course not. Of course.

It wasn't like anything could ever come of it – wasn't like she _wanted_ anything to come of it – did she? Of course not, no. Not in a million years. Even if Galinda wasn't – even if they weren't – no, she didn't care, she didn't. Not a bit.

… _Damn it all, this is bad, this is very, very bad._

That evening, she tosses and turns in a cocoon of blankets, beating her pillow into submission and swiping sweaty hair off her forehead for what feels like half the night. When the clock strikes two _,_ she pulls the covers up over her head, buries her face in her pillow and tells herself to _sleep_ with the kind of cold, absolute certainty Father always uses when he gives orders.

Five hours later, she wakes gasping and shivering and warm all over from a dream that makes her want to jinx Fiyero Tiggular into oblivion.

Oz, this has to stop. Right here, right now. Forever and hereafter. No matter what she might or might not feel, no matter what he might or might not have felt too, no matter what or when or who or how – _this has got to stop_. And the best way to do that is to put as much distance between them possible.

So. That's exactly what she does.

At breakfast, she gulps down her food so fast it leaves her throat scalding and excuses herself before _he_ has even had time to fetch a plate.

During lessons, she angles her chair towards Galinda and tilts her head so that her hair falls in curtains across either side of her face to hide the sight of him.

She speaks with Galinda and only Galinda, keeping up a constant discussion from class to dorm, dorm to dining hall, and back again.

And she takes to studying on her bed, rather than the library, because _he's_ always in there for detention, or extra tutoring, or…sometimes just lounging around, as though his very purpose in life is to drive her utterly insane.

His eyes follow her everywhere, burning into her back. Time and time again, he tries to speak to her – asking her opinion in a discussion, calling to her from across the grounds, catching her on the way to visit Nessa – but she only forces her chin higher, grits her teeth till they ache and pretends with all her might that he quite simply _does not_ exist.

.

"- Fiyero? Dearest, is...is there something wrong?"

Slender fingers are in his hair, brushing over stray curls, his cheeks, and finally his rumpled suit. He wants to jerk away, afraid that Glinda will feel his heart pounding like a trapped jackrabbit's.

Trapped. That's exactly how he feels, no matter how Glinda has listened with an uncharacteristic sombreness at his quiet refusal of drink and what usually followed in his private quarters. He'd feigned a headache - or was it an upset stomach?

Oz, he couldn't even keep his lies straight anymore.

Still, she had been more than happy to lay beside him with dozen soft kisses and caresses. He tries to be eager in returning her affection and lose himself in the taste of strawberry gloss, the scent of artificial flowers – and when that inevitably fails, he latches onto her disappointment, thinly veiled with quick smiles.

_Look,_ he tells himself _, you're pining -_ yes, pining because there was no other word for it _\- over the impossible. Glinda is more than happy - has always been more than happy - and here you are...refusing it._

_She doesn't deserve that_.

"Something wrong? With me?" He lays back, hands cradling the back of his head as his gaze darts to the dark canopy. "Never. I'm always happy."

He doesn't sleep well - in truth, not much at all - and he knows exactly when Glinda leaves at dawn with a barely-there kiss. He intends to apologize in the morning, maybe with some flowers, but those considerations fall to the wayside because the warm space Glinda has left leaves him longing for someone else to fill it. Someone with less curves and curls, whose quick smile only matches her wit, dangerous and dauntingly beautiful with -

Oz, this...this has to stop. Now. Whatever game they've been playing since that afternoon, since detention, since the goddamn _Ozdust_ \- it all stops now. It has too - lest he wants to drive himself insane.

And the best way to do it is to eliminate whatever this distance between them was. To confront her, once and for all. To set things straight and finally move on.

So that's what he needs to do. Or at least, attempt to.

Before, Elphaba avoided him like an annoying sibling. She'd tolerate him - just barely - ignoring him most of the time and snapping only when he really asked her for it.

Now, she avoids him like the plague.

It isn't just silence and staring at everything but him. She makes a point to leave at the same time he appears, whether its during lessons or lunch or even study hours. Whatever places she used to hide - the library, the gardens, and out of the way corridors - remain empty and no amount of prying can get Glinda to admit where Elphaba now conceals herself. And even when his luck wins out and he finds her, Elphaba is rarely alone and when she is, she disappears before he can reach her.

He asks Glinda if her friend is alright. She just shrugs - she knows more, he knows it - and goes on about personal matters. Something with family. Something with Nessa. Something with studying.

He keeps his inquiries as subtle as possible, eventually lying that Boq - or Biq? - had asked about her or a professor had wanted him to pass a message along. Still, nothing.

It's like he's invisible.

He should be angry. He has - or believes he has - every right to be. The library was one thing, an isolated incident. But when he'd himself breathless in the woods with a bleeding hand and a stolen cage and Elphaba's touch startlingly gentle against his cheek…there were certainly questions that had to follow.

He could have kissed her. He would have, if not for Glinda.

And something tells him Elphaba wouldn't have resisted.

.

The days stretch to weeks, and the weeks to months.

She's wandering about by the canal, nose buried in a book and rain spitting delicately onto each well-read page, when it happens.

"Miss Elphaba. Miss Elphaba!"

Morrible's voice carries on the wind, and she glances up, peering through the mist to meet her headmistress's gaze as she totters towards her, a thick leather umbrella raised high in one hand…

…And a crisp emerald-green envelope, bearing a familiar golden seal, in the other.


End file.
